


In the Bleak Midwinter

by lategoodbye



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Don't 'but sir' me, Morse. You're coming with.' - It's just another quiet little Christmas with the Thursdays, but this year they have an unexpected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ruth and Rose for beta'ing and providing feedback. You're both awesome!

It's late in the day when Thursday finds himself walking down the sparsely lit corridors of Cowley Police Station. He's en route to his office, checking in one last time before he sheds his responsibilities as a Detective Inspector for a generous bout of holiday spirit. It's on days like these that the station is manned only by a skeleton crew of PCs. The office is supposed to be empty; the desks cleared of work and the lights switched off. If they're lucky – and during most years they are – things will stay quiet until after Boxing Day. Thursday has promised the wife a quiet few days, and he intends to keep his word. There won't be a minute wasted with thinking about inquiries and evidence and proper procedure. It'll be just his Win, the children and he – with quiet evenings spent sitting around the dining table and watching a bit of the telly; even going for a walk or two if the weather holds. He's looking forward to it all. He'd be a fool if he wasn't. To Fred Thursday family means everything, and he means to make the best of a promising-looking next couple of days.

It's only as he passes the empty incidence board that he notices the soft glow of one of the desk lamps. Thursday falters in his steps as his eyes fall upon the young man, chin rested in his hands, sitting at the desk by the door to his office.

'Morse?' he asks. It's not who he expected to find and it shows in the surprise on his face. When he last saw him, Morse was typing out a report on a recent series of car thefts; a tedious bit of routine work, granted, but not even Morse's severe lack of typing skills would have kept him until much longer than 5. 

'Sir.' The dim light of the room adds to the shadows under Morse's bright blue eyes but he manages to conjure up of one of his trademark blink-and-you'll-miss-it smiles.

Thursday isn't fazed. It's not right that Morse should be here, and he'd extend the same courtesy to any and all of his men. It's Christmas Eve, for Heaven's sake, not a time to be wasted with things that can wait until the holidays are over. Still, Thursday ponders as he weighs his options, he can't very well order him to leave. Morse, he knows, doesn't take well to being patronised.

'You still here about those car thefts?' he asks instead, casually.

Morse shakes his head as he glances down at his desk. There's an open book lying between his propped up elbows; thick and bound in dark blue. Moriarty's Police Law, heavily marked with notes along its margins. Thursday has caught him burying his nose in it for weeks now; during breaks in the canteen (where Morse is seldom seen ingesting anything but over-sugared cups of coffee) or at his desk after the shift has ended. Sometimes, when it's Morse who picks him up in the mornings, he even finds the blue leather volume lying on the back-seat of the Jag. He's a good lad, Thursday thinks proudly to himself, to be studying so hard. There's no reason he'll not pass his exam in due time.

'I typed out the report this afternoon.' Morse nods towards a desk in the corner of the room beyond the incidence board, where a half-filled ashtray sits on top of a few typewritten sheets of loose paper. Thursday's expression is unreadable but he acknowledges Morse's reply with a nod of his own as he makes his way across the room and into his office. It takes him but a moment to make out the shape of a pipe on his desk. It's a spare, and not a particularly expensive one at that, but he's enjoyed a smoke or two from it during the past couple of weeks. It's a sturdy little thing, surely, but not by far the only reason he's come, he now realises as he pulls the door shut behind him and stops in front of Morse's desk. His face is a stern mask of unwavering professionalism.

'Then what exactly do you think you're doing?' 

Morse sits up straight and lets his hands drop into his lap. He resembles a scolded school boy that way but there's a hint of defiance in his eyes as he fumbles momentarily for the right words to say.

'Well, I thought I'd … someone's got to be here in case there's-'

Thursday isn't having any of it.

'That's a PC's job and you know it.'

Morse shrugs. When he meets his gaze there's honesty in it. There almost always is with Morse but Thursday wasn't born yesterday. Call it a hunch or years of experience; or perhaps he's finally getting that much closer to uncovering the truth about this peculiar young man. He wants to, Thursday does. There's something about him – and it isn't his brains or his promising career in the Force – that makes it so easy for him to like Morse. He's quick-witted and well-meaning and honest. But he's also lonely. Or alone. Sometimes Thursday can't tell which is which with his on-off bagman.

'To be quite honest with you, sir,' Morse now says. 'I like the quiet. It helps me with this.' He gestures toward his open book. There's a little notebook hidden halfway underneath it, its pages filled to the brim with rows of neat little scribble. 'My sergeant's coming up in a month and I've got precious little time to revise as it is.'

Thursday's sternness melts away as he takes in the man sitting in front of him; with his crumpled suit and earnest face, the right sleeve of his faded shirt smudged with something that might very well be typewriter ink. The best damn detective he's ever seen. Clever man, Morse, but this isn't what this is about.

'What of your family? They don't live all that far away, do they?'

His voice has softened but he doesn't miss a beat as Morse's brows furrow in something like anger and regret all at once. Thursday doesn't pretend to understand. He's not a particularly nosy man. None of his business, that's what this is. Morse's reluctance to bring up his family is reason enough to believe that past Christmases couldn't have been a very jolly affair. With his mother dead and his father remarried (it's all there on file, next to a blurry photograph of a younger, even more serious-looking, and uniformed Morse) life couldn't have been easy for anyone. And he's a quiet sort, Morse. Never complaining, never losing his temper – unless of course there's the plight of the wrongfully accused (and preferably damsels in distress) at stake.

'They'll do fine without me,' he now replies but he swallows half of his words in a thinly-veiled attempt to add an unmistakeable tone of finality to them.

It's then that Fred Thursday decides that something has to be done about the matter. 

'Right, that's enough. Get up.'

Morse's reaction is almost comically predictable, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise as he sinks back against his chair. 

'But sir-' he starts. Thursday cuts him off not unkindly.

'Don't 'but sir' me, Morse. You're coming with. My Win would never forgive me if I just up and left you here. And today of all days!' 

Thursday shakes his head and takes a look around the office. There's no Christmas decorations this year: no mistletoe (something that's always been good for a laugh or two), no baubles and gingerbread; only the sorry excuse for treacle tart from the canteen. They have the new Chief Super to thank for it, and Thursday generally agrees with his decision to keep things professional. After all, it's in his job description to make good with Bright. But the job's the job, and baubles won't take the weight off even the pettiest of crime. 

They're not exactly on the job now though, even Morse must realise. It takes him but a moment to accept the decision that's been made for him. He gets up reluctantly but Thursday likes to imagine – no, he knows! – that the lad genuinely wants to come. And as Morse dons his thin coat and then makes for Moriarty's Police Law he interrupts him once again.

'You leave those here. There'll be plenty of time for you to pick up your books when you're running the car back to the station tomorrow.'

Morse does as he is told. He doesn't see the relief on his DI's face as he switches off the desk light and hesitantly follows Thursday out of the office. 

'Where're we going?' he asks as together they step outside, into a soft fall of something that's not quite snow and leaves but a bleak dusting of white on the wet Oxford streets. Then again, who's going to argue semantics on a day like this anyway?

Thursday smiles. 

'Home, Morse. We're going home.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite in time for Christmas, the second part of my little Christmas ficlet. Thanks so much to Beth for beta-reading and to Rose for suffering through the first draft.

With the streets nearly empty they make it to North Oxford in little more than quarter of an hour but Morse can't help but wonder how on Earth he's supposed to get home later that evening. The fine drizzle has turned into sleet and he finds that the car frequently understeers on the slippery asphalt. Morse has never been the most attentive of drivers but by now he's grown accustomed to handling the Mark 1. It's a sturdy diva of a saloon, slow to react and not exactly state-of-the-art but it works to his advantage. And, to be quite honest, Morse prefers this model to the flashy little things out and about on the streets today. It's neither his nor Thursday's car, though, and he doesn't know whether he's supposed to leave it or take it back to Oxford and run it to the station tomorrow. Thursday hasn't made an attempt to explain and Morse doesn't want to make a fool out of himself by asking. He does as he's told and, after they leave the Jag by the side of the road, trails behind Thursday as they make their way inside the house. The dining room window, he can see, is illuminated by what must be coloured paper lanterns, and for a moment Morse wonders if they're handmade or store-bought, like the ones Gwen puts up every year.

He lingers on the doorstep. The very tips of his fingers rest on the lapels of his coat but he makes no attempt to unbutton it until Thursday nods toward the coat-rack and gestures for him to step through into the narrow passage that connects living room, dining room and the little kitchen. 

'Brought us home a guest,' he proclaims loudly and it's Win Thursday who rushes out of the kitchen to greet Morse with a genuine smile on her lips before she welcomes her husband home with a kiss on the cheek. Morse watches them for a moment, then politely averts his eyes. He doesn't envy Thursday his seemingly perfect family life, he doesn't even much yearn for it. Children, he fears, are not for him. They make him feel awkward and inadequate and not so clever. Someone to come home to, he knows more than anyone, isn't always worth the trouble; and he can't remember a time when his stepmother and father have shown true affection towards each other – at least not in his presence, much less in the presence of strangers. 

'Is your Constable staying for dinner?' Mrs Thursday asks but there's nothing of Gwen's coldness and mistrust in her warm blue eyes as she carefully straightens her apron and looks to both her husband and her unexpected guest for a reply. 

'Couldn't leave him at the station, could I? Lad's been hard at work, studying for his sergeant's even after his shift's ended. He's got no family around, you see?'

Mrs Thursday nods understandingly, then she gets to work.

'I'll get you right set up,' she says and vanishes into the dining room, where the table, Morse can see through the half-closed door, is currently set for four. 

'I don't want to impose myself,' he starts, not feeling any more at ease now that he's officially been invited. He resists the urge to let his clammy hands slip into the pockets of his trousers; an ungainly habit, he knows, but most of the time he finds that he can't do anything about it. 

'Nonsense, Morse. You're always welcome here. What's one more hungry mouth to feed? Go on then and wait in the living room. Sam's in, and I'm sure Joanie is around here somewhere.'

When he's finished talking, Thursday is already halfway up the stairs, and for a moment longer, Morse stands forlornly in the narrow hallway. He can hear the faint clang of plates and cutlery coming from the dining room, and the earthy smell of fish and pastry from the kitchen reminds him that it's almost time for dinner. The unfamiliar rhythm of beat music draws him into the living room but when Morse reluctantly enters it's not the wireless that's blaring the Beatles or the Tremeloes or the Hollies (and, really, who can tell the difference these days?) but some programme on the television. Morse stares at it in incomprehension for a moment, then he lifts an unsure hand to greet Sam Thursday, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the settee.

'Alright, Morse?' says Sam but his eyes never leave the four-piece band that's playing non-too enthusiastically (or rhythmically, Morse thinks) on the black and white TV-set.

But it's the Christmas tree that catches Morse's eye, and now that he's seen it the fragrant smell of needles and resin is everywhere around him. It's a pretty tree, Morse thinks, and he's reminded of all the times his father would take him into town to get a Christmas tree of their own. There were always bigger, better firs to be had than Cyril Morse could afford to buy (or ended up with once his obligatory business with the bookies had been concluded). Some of their trees had been crooked, their branches bare and uneven, and to be quite honest, the better part of Morse's excitement for Christmas had been irretrievably lost after the sudden death of his mother. Christmastime, for him, was about watching little Joycie trying to take in all the pretty baubles and ornaments and wrapped chocolates and tinsel all at once. And she, he also knows, would have loved this tree, with its many coloured glass balls and bells and birds, with its gold tinsel and Christmas crackers and a little figurine of an angel on top. There's fairy lights instead of candles but they are, as of yet, switched off. Morse can't help but wonder how the tree would look in all of its glory, the presents underneath (still covered with a simple table-cloth) bathed in the soft glow of light.

'What's this?' 

Morse turns around and it's Thursday's oldest, Joan, standing in the doorway, her dark hair made up in pretty waves. She's smiling at him, still Morse feels out of place. His family (well, mostly Gwen) never takes well to guests on Christmas. It's a family holiday, she would say, and then proceed to listen to a medley of the most memorable episodes of The Archers on the wireless. 

'Christmas come early for you, Joanie,' Sam suddenly pipes up from his spot in front of the sofa.

'Ha ha, very funny.' 

The argument, Morse assumes (although he doesn't quite follow), seems to be an old and familiar one.

'Not exactly the right one though, innit? Wrong hair and everything. Needs more Brylcreem. Two more jars should about do the job.' Sam is teasing now and Morse can hear Joan's little gasp as he unsuccessfully tries to figure out what's going on and what exactly seems to be the problem with his hair.

'Shut it, Sam!' 

Perhaps Morse agrees. A little bit.

Their banter is cut short by Thursday.

'Behave yourselves,' he interrupts them not unkindly, then he ushers everyone into the dining room, where paper garlands have been hung across the room and the table has been decorated with red candles. Their meal is a modest one, fish pie and mashed potatoes, a glass of white wine for Win, orange juice for the children, and two bottles of brown ale for Thursday and Morse. 

Morse, who only now realises that he hasn't had anything substantial to eat for most of the day, expects to dine in silence, and he waits for a table prayer that never comes. Instead there's light jokes and chatter as Morse digs in. He doesn't have much to contribute but nobody seems to mind. It's surprising even to him when he goes for seconds. He's drowsy with contentment when they've finished their meal, and he hasn't even had much of his beer. 

'How have you been, Constable?' Win asks after they've made their way back into the living room. Thursday has opened a bottle of Sherry. It's a taste Morse doesn't much savour but he politely accepts the invitation for a drink and they each take a seat around the small living room table. 

Morse, who still hasn't relaxed enough to take up much space on the settee he shares with Joan and Thursday, doesn't quite know what to reply.

“Well enough, I suppose,' he shrugs, truthfully.

'Now there's no need for police business here. It's Christmas. Lad's our guest.' Thursday adds through a puff of richly flavoured smoke from one of his spare pipes. 

Win, who's busy knitting something that looks to be the early stages of a scarf, smiles and looks to Morse for her next question.

'What do I call you then, love?'

'Ah.' Morse hesitates and his eyes won't quite meet hers. The answer to this mystery of mysteries is a rather simple one, but it always leaves him with a vague sense of embarrassment. 'People just … they just call me-'

'Morse will do,' Thursday cuts in good-naturedly. Relief lights up Morse's face and he's sure that it shows, only this time, he doesn't much mind.

And he doesn't even realise it's late until he finds himself nodding off and someone touches his arm very lightly when it's time for everyone to go to bed.

'Sam will sleep downstairs. You can have his room for the night,' Win says softly and at first Morse doesn't comprehend. His limbs are heavy with sleep and his mind hazy with exhaustion.

'I can take the car back to the station and-' he's slow to reply as he straightens up in a futile attempt to prove his resolve.

'Now don't argue, Morse,' comes Thursday's voice from behind his wife's. 'No sense in returning it today.'

'Plus,' Sam says as he enters the room, pillow and blankets in his arms. 'I might take good old Father Christmas by surprise. Get him to part with a few more presents.'

'Sounds rather more naughty than nice to me,' Morse replies, then scolds himself for speaking up at all. He tends to make a mess of things, sometimes, when his brains get the better of him.

'Right he is,' Thursday agrees. 'And don't you go peeking and poking at the presents tonight.'

'I'm not a child, dad,' Sam complains as Morse follows Win out of the room. He's never been upstairs but the layout of the house seems familiar enough: hallway, bedroom, a tiny bathroom (recently redecorated in shades of eggshell and muted orange) and two small rooms for the children. Sam's room, Morse finds as he methodically undresses, is reasonably tidy. Despite his claims to the contrary there are a few issues of the Beano hidden away underneath exercise books. There's a poster of a pop group on the wall, next to several postcards, faded polaroids of people he doesn't recognise and a photograph of a modern ocean liner (though which one it is Morse doesn't know and he's too tired to read the small print). When he slips underneath the covers he does so gingerly. It's not everyday that he sleeps in a bed that isn't his and the thought follows him until he falls into a dreamless but restful slumber.

Morse wakes up to the sound of muted laughter from downstairs. It confuses him, so does the strange poster on the wall and the light that falls through the curtained windows. He looks about himself in search of a clock, and when his bleary eyes finally manage to make out a small alarm clock by the desk he's surprised that it's already past 9.

He feels vaguely embarrassed as he dresses and tiptoes into the bathroom. Once he's sure that the Thursdays have finished exchanging presents and he'll no longer intrude on something that he feels he has no place in, he joins them, but reluctantly so; with the palms of his hands nervously brushing over the thick fabric of his trousers.

It's the Christmas tree, the lights finally switched on, that seems to have become the very centre of the room. There's music playing; a nondescript choral rendition of classic Christmas carols but Morse's attention, he finds, is with the Thursdays, still clad in pyjamas and bathrobes. Sam and Joan sit on the floor amidst the remnants of wrapping paper (and Sam is busy reading the back of a mint-looking pop record while adjusting the pinkish paper crown on his head), while their parents sit close to one another on the settee (Win is wearing the unmistakable twinkle of new earrings; Thursday examines something that looks to be tobacco and a new pipe on the table in front of him). 

It all makes his heart ache, but it's a good kind of ache; the ache that usually accompanies a beautiful piece of music. 

'Happy Christmas,' he wishes them shyly, and he sits down on the very edge of an armchair, hands dug deep into the pockets of his trousers, his legs – as usual – stretched out in disarray.

'I probably should be going,' Morse says a little while later. 'I'll be attending a concert with the Choral Society in …' He looks at his watch. 'Oh. In about two hour's time.'

'You can't leave without your present,' Joan says and looks to her parents for support. In her hands she's holding a card that must be part of her present but except for a picture of a Christmas tree Morse can't make out its significance. Instead he looks about himself, at a loss for words and feeling himself go red. 

'Uh,' he replies, not very helpfully. When Win gets up and makes for the last unopened present that's still half-hidden under the Christmas tree, Morse raises from his chair in an exclamation of skittishness. 

'Here you go, love.'

It's a small parcel, wrapped in red and green, the paper crinkled by the relative shapelessness of whatever is inside. Morse stares at it, as if he's not quite sure what to do now that it's presented to him in Win's outstretched arms.

'I couldn't possibly-' he tries, and he means it. The only present he's received this year, and in the years before, is a letter and card and a little drawing by Joycie. To him, those letters mean the world. He isn't quite sure what this is and whether he even deserves it.

'It's a present, Morse,' Joan urges him on. 'Mum's spent all evening working on it.'

'I … uhm …' he replies and there's something hot burning behind his eyes as he carefully, very carefully, accepts the gift and retreats to his armchair by the door. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to open what he still can't think of as his present because he doesn't want the wrapping paper to rip. Throughout it all, he feels the Thursdays – even his guv – watching him, and it makes him feel self-conscious and fidgety. There's a lump in his throat and he hasn't even finished unwrapping yet. Then there's the soft feel of tightly knit wool between his fingers and he can make out stripes and muted colours. It's a scarf. The scarf Win Thursday has spent much of yesterday evening knitting for him.

Morse is rendered speechless while the muscles in his throat and jaw work tonelessly.

'I think he likes it,' whispers Sam. 

When Morse looks up, the scarf still clutched tightly in his hands, there's none of the treacherous sheen of unshed tears left in his soulful eyes. The freckles on his cheeks and forehead, however, stand out a little more clearly against the slight redness of his face, and he can feel his ears burn and his heart beat in his chest as he's searching for a way to express the true extent of his gratitude.

'Thank you. Mrs Thursday,' he finally manages to say, and he tries so hard to sound sincere that his voice is on the verge of breaking and he has to make an effort to pronounce each word clearly. 'I don't know how I can-'

'It's Win, dear. And you're very welcome.' 

Morse might be mistaken but it definitely looks like there are tears in her eyes, and she dabs them away with the help of an embroidered handkerchief as she quietly smiles to herself.

'Scarf like that will see you through many a cold winter,' Thursday proudly exclaims and wraps his arm around his wife as she sits back down next to him.

Morse, who's come to accept that a smile is always going to feel just a little out of place on his face, looks at them fondly. He thinks of them when he leaves and the cold of the bleak midwinter morning isn't quite as biting as he drives the car back to the station and makes his way, walking briskly, back to his flat. He doesn't have much time, he knows, as he decides to have a quick wash before changing into the dinner suit he's already laid out on the bed. Still, he lingers in front of the shelf that holds his dearest possessions, and it takes him quite some time before he's chosen a suitable record. 

And what would barely be a five minute walk from here to the Sheldonian ends up taking him half an hour longer. Indeed, he's so late that he almost misses what he's been looking forward to all month long. And maybe it's for the best, he thinks, that the Thursdays aren't in, probably out for a walk or attending church, when he pays them another quick visit and parts with his beloved Lehmann recording of the Christmas Oratorio, awkwardly wrapped in brown packing paper and with a hastily scribbled note tucked underneath the improvised ribbon. He's not one for Christmas, Morse thinks; scarf wrapped tightly about himself, as he takes the long way around to one of the few pubs that's opened on Christmas Day.


End file.
